IN THE WAKE OF THE WEATHER CLOTH.—See Pages [305–320].

THE STRIFE
OF THE SEA

T. JENKINS HAINS
AUTHOR OF “THE WIND-JAMMERS,” ETC.

NEW YORK
THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO.
33–37 East Seventeenth St., Union Sq., North

Copyright, 1903, by THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO.

Copyright, 1901 and 1902, by Harper & Bros.
Copyright, 1902 and 1903, by The Success Co.
Copyright, 1902 and 1903, by The Independent.
Copyright, 1903, by The Butterick Pub. Co. (Ltd.)

Published October, 1903.

TO
ROBERT MACKAY

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE STRIFE OF THE SEA

THE OLD MAN OF SAND KEY

THE OLD MAN OF SAND KEY

He was an old man when he first made his appearance on the reef at the Sand Key Light. This was years ago, but one could tell it even then by the way he drew in his chin, or rather pouch, in a dignified manner as he soared in short circles over the outlying coral ledges which shone vari-colored in the sunshine beneath the blue waters of the Gulf Stream. He had fished alone for many seasons without joining the smaller and more social birds, and the keepers had grown to know him. He was a dignified and silent bird, and his stately flight and ponderous waddle over the dry reef had made it quite evident that he was a bird with a past. Sandy Shackford, the head keeper, knew him well and relied implicitly upon his judgment as to the location of certain denizens of the warm Stream. He had come back again after a month’s absence, and was circling majestically over the coral banks not a hundred fathoms from the light.

The day was beautiful and the sunshine was hot. The warm current of the Gulf flowed silently now with the gentle southwest wind, and the white sails of the spongers from Havana and Key West began to dot the horizon. Here and there a large barracouta or albicore would dart like a streak of shimmering silver through the liquid, and the old man would cast his glance in the direction of the vanishing point with a ready pinion to sweep headlong at the mullet or sailor’s-choice which were being pursued.

His gray head was streaked with penciled feathers which grew longer as they reached his neck, and his breast was colored a dull, mottled lead. His back and wings gave a general impression of gray and black, the long pinions of the latter being furnished with stiff quills which tapered with a lighter shade to the tips. His beak and pouch were of more than ordinary proportions, for the former was heavy and hooked at the end and the latter was large and elastic, capable of holding a three-pound mullet.

He soared slowly over the reef for some time, and the keeper watched him, sitting upon the rail of the lantern smoking his pipe, while his assistant filled the body of the huge lamp and trimmed its several wicks.

To the westward a slight ripple showed upon the surface of the quiet sea. The pelican sighted it and stood away toward it, for it looked like a mackerel that had come to the surface to take in the sunshine and general beauty of the day. In a moment the old man had swung over the spot at a height of about a hundred feet; then suddenly folding his wings, he straightened out his body, opened his beak, and shot straight downwards upon the doomed fish. It was literally a bolt from heaven from out of a clear sky. The lower beak expanded as it hit the water and opened the pouch into a dipper which scooped up the mackerel, while the weight of the heavy body falling from the great height carried everything below the surface with a resounding splash that could be heard distinctly upon the light. Then up he came from the dive with the fish struggling frantically in his tough leathern sack. He rested a moment to get his breath and then stretched forth his pinions again and rose in a great circle into the clear blue air.

“The old man’s fishin’ mackerel this mornin’,” said Sandy, “an’ I reckon I’ll get the dory an’ try a squid over along the edge o’ the Stream as soon as the breeze makes.”

“Well, take care you don’t lose nothin’,” said Bill with a grin.

“Whatcher mean?” snarled the older keeper.

“Nothin’,” answered the assistant.

“Then don’t say it,” said Sandy, and he walked down the steps of the spider-like structure, muttering ominously, until he reached the reef a hundred feet below, where, hauled high and dry, lay his boat. Sandy was an old man, and had depended upon false teeth for some years. The last time he had gone fishing he had lost them from his boat, and as he could not leave the light he had nearly starved to death. In desperation at last he had set the ensign union down and signaled for assistance, the second keeper Bill being ashore on leave, and after the U.S.S. Ohio had come all the way from Key West to find out the cause of the trouble he had been forced to explain to the officer his humiliating disaster. As the danger of landing in the surf had been great and the services of the man-of-war had been required for a whole day, he had been forced to listen to a lecture upon the absurdity of his behavior that did little to encourage him, and it was only his emaciated appearance and unfeigned weakness from loss of food that saved him his position as keeper.

He shoved his small boat off and sprang into her. Then he stepped the mast, and hauling aft the sheet swung her head around and stood off the reef, riding easily over the low swell. High above him was the lantern, and he looked up to see Bill gazing down at him and pointing toward the southward, where a ripple showed the breaching fish. His lines were in the after locker, and he soon had them out, one of them with a wooden squid trolling over the stern as the little craft gathered headway.

The memory of his former disaster now came upon him, and he took out his teeth, which were new, and examined the plates upon which they were fastened. A small hole in either side showed, and through these he rove a piece of line. Then he placed the teeth back in his mouth and fastened the ends of the line back of his ear.

“Let ’em drop an’ be danged to it, they’ll git back mighty quick this time,” he muttered. “I wonder where that old pelican left the school of fish?”

The old bird had satisfied his present needs and had flown away to a distant part of the outlying bank, where he was now proceeding to enjoy his catch at leisure. Far away to the northward, where Key West showed above the horizon, a long line of black specks were rapidly approaching through the air. They were the regular fishermen of the reef, and they were bound out to sea this morning for their daily meal. On they came in single file like a line of soldiers, their distance apart remaining regular and the motions of their leader followed with military precision. Every time he would strike the air several sharp strokes with his wings, the motion would be instantly taken up by the long line of followers flapping their own in unison.

The “old man” heeded them very little indeed as he quietly ate his fish, and they knew enough not to bother him. They sailed majestically past and swung in huge circles over the blue Gulf to locate the passing school.

The old man mused as he ate, and wondered at their stupidity. Even the light-keeper knew as much as they. There was the breaching school a mile away to windward, and the stupid birds were still watching him.

He saw his wives go past in line. There was old Top-knot, a wise and ugly companion of former days, her penciled feathers on her neck rubbed the wrong way. Behind her came a young son, an ingrate, who even now would try to steal the fish from him did he but leave it for a moment to dive for another. He glanced at him and ate steadily on. He would finish his fish first and look out for his ungrateful son afterwards.

Further behind came his youngest companion, one who had hatched forth twelve stout birds during the past few years and who was still supple and vigorous, her smooth feathers still showing a gloss very pretty to look at. But she gave him no notice, and he ate in silence until they all passed far beyond and sighted at last the breaching mackerel.

When he had finished he sat stately and dignified upon the sand of the reef, all alone. Far away to the southward, where the high mountains of the Cuban shore rose above the line of water when he soared aloft, a thin smoke rose from some passing steamer. To the northward the spars of the shipping at Key West stuck above the calm sea. All about was peaceful, bright, and beautiful daylight, and the ugly spider-like tower of the Sand Key Light stood like a huge sentinel as though to guard the scene.

The day was so quiet that the sullen splashes of the fisher birds sounded over the smooth surface of the sea, and the breeze scarcely rippled the blue water. The deep Gulf rolled and heaved in the sunshine, and the drone of the small breakers that fell upon the reef sounded low and had a sleepy effect upon the old fellow who had finished his fish.

He sat with his pouch drawn in and his long, heavy beak resting upon his neck, which he bent well into the shape of a letter S. Now and then he would close an eye as the glare from the white coral in the sunshine became too bright. The man in the boat was trolling back and forth through the school of fish with hardly enough way on his craft to make them strike, but every now and then he saw him haul aboard a shimmering object that struggled and fought for freedom. Above, and at a little distance, soared the pelicans. Every now and then one would suddenly fold its wings and make a straight dive from the height of a hundred feet or more, striking the sea with a splash that sent up a little jet of foam.

The sun rose higher and the scorching reef glared in the fierce light. The old man shifted his feet on the burning sand and looked about him for a spot where he might bring another fish and lie quiet for the afternoon. He turned his head toward the westward, where Mangrove Key rose like a dark green bush a few feet above the water of the reef. Two small specks were in the blue void above it, and his eyes instantly detected them and remained staring at them with unwinking gaze.

The specks grew larger rapidly, but they were a long way off yet, and he might be mistaken as to what they were. He had seen them rise above the blue line before, and if they were what he took them to be there would be trouble on the reef before long. Yes, he was not mistaken. They rose steadily, coming on a straight line for him, and now they were only a mile distant. Then he noticed one of the objects swerve slightly to the eastward and he saw they were, indeed, a pair of the great bald eagles from the Everglades of Florida.

He was an old man, and he gazed steadily at them without much concern, although he knew they meant death to all who opposed their path. They were pirates. They were the cruelest of killers and as implacable and certain in their purpose as the Grim Destroyer himself. The pelicans fishing for their living over the reef were good and easy prey. A sudden dash among them, with beak and talons cutting and slashing right and left, and there would be some full pouches of fish to empty. It was much better to let the stupid birds fill up first and then sweep among them. Then, after despoiling them of their hard-gotten catch, they would carry as much of the plunder as they cared for to some sheltering key to devour at leisure.

The white head of the leading pirate shone in the sunshine and his fierce eyes were fixed upon the fishermen. The old man was apparently unnoticed, although there was little within the sweep of that savage gaze that was left unmarked. Those eyes could see the slightest object on land or sea far beyond the reach of ordinary vision. They had even this morning, probably, been watching the fishermen from some distant key miles away to the northward.

The old man was a huge, tough old fellow, and he dreaded nothing. He gazed at the fishermen and a feeling of disdain for their weakness came upon him. He thought of his old scolding mate, Top-knot. What a scared old bird she would be in a moment with that great eagle sailing straight as a bullet for her, his beak agape, and his hoarse scream sounding in her wake. How she would make for the open sea, only to be caught in a few moments and torn until she disgorged her fish. His eldest son would make a show of fight, perhaps, and in a very few minutes would be a badly used up pelican. As for the rest, how they would wildly and silently strike for the open ocean, going in single file as was their custom, only to be overtaken one by one, until they were all ripped and torn by the fierce fighters, who would follow leisurely along behind, striking and clutching, screaming and calling to increase their fright and dismay.

He was almost amused at the prospect, for the pirate birds seemed to know him instinctively for a barren prize and swept with the speed of the wind past him and over the reef to the blue waters of the Gulf beyond, where the fishermen were still unaware of their approach. He would watch and see the skirmish, for no harm could come to him even though all the rest were killed and wounded. He swung himself around and gazed seaward again, and suddenly the thought of his uselessness came upon him.

Why should he sit there and see this thing done—he, an old man? He had led the flock for many years. Should he, the father of many and the companion of all in former days, see them cut up by two enemies? What if they no longer cared for him? What if the younger birds were ungrateful and would steal his fish? Was he not the old leader, the one they all had looked to in the years gone by? Did not even the men in the tower treat his knowledge with respect? And here a couple of fierce marauders from the forests of the land had passed him to wreak their will upon the timid birds whose leader had grown old. Memories of former days came to him, and something made him raise his head very straight and draw his pouch close in.

He sat gazing for a few moments longer. The eagles now had closed up half the distance, for they were going with a rush. A pelican saw them and headed straight out to sea, striking the air wildly with outstretched pinions. Then in they dashed with hoarse cries that caused the keeper in the boat to luff into the wind to witness the struggle.

The old man launched his weight into the air, and with a few sudden strokes rose to the height of a couple of fathoms above the sea, bearing down toward the screaming birds with the rapidity of an express train.

Above Sandy Shackford a very mixed affair was taking place. The two eagles had dashed into the pelicans without warning and were within striking distance before many of them could even turn to flee. Old Top-knot had just caught a fine fish and was in the act of rising with it when the leading eagle swooped down upon her with a shrill scream. She was an old and nervous bird and a touch from any other creature she dreaded at all times. Now, right behind her came a giant shape, with glaring eyes and gaping beak, a very death’s-head, white and grisly, while beneath were a pair of powerful feet, armed with sharp talons, ready to seize her in a deadly grip. She gave a desperate leap to clear the sea and stretch her wings, but the sight was too much for her, and she sank back upon the surface. The great eagle was too terrifying for her old nerves, and she sat helpless.

In an instant the eagle was upon her. He seized her fiercely in his talons and struck her savagely in the back, and the poor old bird instantly disgorged her newly caught fish. Her savage assailant hesitated a moment before striking her down for good and all, while he watched the fish swim away into the depths below. Then he turned to finish her.

At that instant there was a tremendous rush through the air, and a huge body struck him full in the breast, knocking him floundering upon the sea. The old man had come at him as straight as a bullet from a gun, and, with the full force of his fifteen pounds sailing through the air, had struck him with his tough old body, that had been hardened by many a high dive from above.

The eagle was taken completely aback, and struggled quickly into the air to get out of that vicinity, while the old man, carried along by the impetus of his rush, soared around in a great circle and came slowly back to renew the attack. In a moment the eagle had recovered, and, with true game spirit, swung about to meet this new defender of the fishermen. They met in mid-air, about two fathoms above the sea, and Sandy Shackford cheered wildly for his old acquaintance as he landed a heavy blow with his long, hooked bill.

“Go it, old man!” he cried. “Give it to him. Oh, if I had my gun, wouldn’t I soak him for ye!”

The other birds had fled seaward, and were now almost out of sight, being pursued by the second eagle. One limp form floated on the sea to mark the course of the marauder. Old Top-knot had recovered from the shock, and was now making a line for Cuba. The old man was the only one left, and he was detaining the great bald eagle for his last fight, the fight of his life.

Around and around they soared. The eagle was wary and did not wish to rush matters with the determined old man, who, with beak drawn back, sailed about ready for a stroke. Then, disdaining the clumsy old fellow, the bald eagle made a sudden rush as though he would end the matter right there. The old man met him, and there was a short scrimmage in the air which resulted in both dropping to the sea. Here the old man had the advantage. The eagle could not swim, his powerful talons not being made for propelling him over the water. The old man managed to hold his own, although he received a savage cut from the other’s strong beak. This round was a draw. During this time the second eagle had seen that his companion was not following the startled game, and he returned just in time to see him disengage from a whirlwind of wings and beaks and wait a moment to decide just how he would finish off the old fellow who had the hardihood to dispute his way. Then he joined the fight, and together they swooped down upon the old man for the finish.

He met them with his head well up and wings outstretched, and gave them so much to do that they were entirely taken up with the affair and failed to notice Sandy Shackford, who was creeping up, paddling with all his strength with an oar-blade.

The encounter could not last long. The old fellow was rapidly succumbing to the attacks of his powerful antagonists, and although he still kept the mix-up in a whirl of foam with his desperate struggles, he could not hope to last against two such pirates as were now pitted against him. One of them struck him fiercely and tore his throat open, ripping his pouch from end to end. He was weakening fast and knew the struggle must end in another rush. Both eagles came at him at once, uttering hoarse cries, and drawing back his head he made one last, desperate stroke with his hooked beak. Then something seemed to crash down upon his foes from above. An oar-blade whirled in the sunshine and struck the leading eagle upon the head, knocking him lifeless upon the sea. Then the other rose quickly and started off to the northward as the form of the keeper towered above in the bow of the approaching boat.

Sandy Shackford picked the great white-headed bird from the water and dropped him into the boat and the old man looked on wondering. He had known the keeper for a long time, but had never been at close quarters.

“Poor old man,” said Sandy. “Ye look mighty badly used up.” And then he made a motion toward him.

But the old pelican wanted no sympathy. His was the soul of the leader, and he scorned help. Stretching forth his wings with a mighty effort, he arose from the sea. The reef lay but a short distance away, and he would get ashore to rest. The pain in his throat was choking him, but he would sit quiet a while and get well. He would not go far, but he would be alone. The whole sea shimmered dizzily in the sunshine, but a little rest and the old bones would be right again. He would be quiet and alone.

“Poor old man,” said Sandy, as he watched him sail away. “He’s a dead pelican, but he made a game fight.”

Then he hauled in his lines, and, squaring away before the wind, ran down to the light with the eagle and a dozen fine fish in the bottom of his dory.

The next day the old man was not fishing on the reef. The other birds came back—all except one. But the old man failed to show up during the whole day.

The next day and the next came and went, and Sandy, who looked carefully every morning for the old fellow, began to give up all hope of seeing him again. Then, in the late afternoon when the other birds were away, the old man came sailing slowly over the water and landed stiffly upon the coral of a point just awash at the end of the key.

As the sun was setting, the old man swung himself slowly around to face it. He drew his head well back and held himself dignified and stately as he walked to the edge of the surf. There he stopped, and as the flaming orb sank beneath the western sea, the old man still stood watching it as it disappeared.

Sandy Shackford lit the lantern, and the sudden tropic night fell upon the quiet ocean.

In the morning the keeper looked out, and the old man was sitting silent and stationary as before. When the day wore on and he did not start out fishing Sandy took the dory and rowed to the jutting reef. He walked slowly toward the old man, not wishing to disturb him, but to help him if he could. He drew near, and the old bird made no motion. He reached slowly down, and the head he touched was cold.

Sitting there, with the setting sun shining over the southern sea, the old man had died. He was now cold and stiff, but even in death he sat straight and dignified. He had died as a leader should.

“Poor old man,” said Sandy. “His pouch was cut open an’ he jest naterally starved to death—couldn’t hold no fish, an’ as fast as he’d catch ’em they’d get away. It was a mean way to kill a fine old bird. Ye have my sympathy, old man. I came nigh goin’ the same way once myself.”

And then, as if not to disturb him, the keeper walked on his toes to his boat and shoved off.

THE OUTCAST

THE OUTCAST

The day was bright and the sunshine glistened upon the smooth water of Cumberland Sound. The sand beach glared in the fierce rays and the heat was stifling. What little breeze there was merely ruffled the surface of the water, streaking it out into fantastic shapes upon the oily swell which heaved slowly in from the sea. Far away the lighthouse stood out white and glinting, the trees about the tall tower looking inviting with their shade. The swell snored low and sullenly upon the bar, where it broke into a line of whiteness, and the buoys rode the tide silently, making hardly a ripple as it rushed past.

Riley, the keeper of the light, was fishing. His canoe was anchored close to the shore in three fathoms of water, and he was pulling up whiting in spite of the ebb, which now went so fast that it was with difficulty he kept his line upon the bottom. When he landed his fiftieth fish they suddenly stopped biting. He changed his bait, but to no purpose. Then he pulled up his line and spat upon his hook for luck.

Even this remedy for wooing the goddess of fortune failed him, and he mopped his face and wondered. Then he looked over the side.

For some minutes he could see nothing but the glint of the current hurrying past. The sunshine dazzled him. Then he shaded his eyes and tried to pierce the depths beneath the boat.

The water was as crystal, and gradually the outlines of the soft bottom began to take form. He could follow the anchor rope clear down until a cross showed where the hook took the ground.

Suddenly he gave a start. In spite of the heat he had a chill run up his spine. Then he gazed fixedly down, straight down beneath the small boat’s bottom.

A huge pair of eyes were looking up at him with a fixed stare. At first they seemed to be in the mud of the bottom, two unwinking glassy eyes about a foot apart, with slightly raised sockets. They were almost perfectly round, and although he knew they must belong to a creature lying either to or against the current, he could not tell which side the body must lie. Gradually a movement forward of the orbs attracted his attention, and he made out an irregular outline surrounding a section of undulating mud. This showed the expanse of the creature’s body, lying flat as it was, and covering an area of several yards. It showed the proportions of the sea-devil, the huge ray whose shark-like propensities made it the most dreaded of the inhabitants of the Sound. There he lay looking serenely up at the bottom of the boat with his glassy eyes fixed in that grisly stare, and it was little wonder he was called the devil-fish.

Riley spat overboard in disgust, and drew in his line. There was no use trying to fish with that horrible thing lying beneath. He got out the oars and then took hold of the anchor line and began to haul it in, determined to seek a fishing drop elsewhere or go home. As he hauled the line, the great creature below noticed the boat move ahead. He watched it for some seconds, and then slid along the bottom, where the hook was buried in the mud.

It was easy to move his huge bulk. The side flukes had but to be ruffled a little, and the great form would move along like a shadow. He could see the man in the boat when he bent over the side, and he wondered several times whether he should take the risk of a jump aboard. He was a scavenger, and not hard to please in the matter of diet. Anything that was alive was game to his maw. He had watched for more than an hour before the light-keeper had noticed it, and now the boat was drawing away. His brain was very small, and he could not overcome a peculiar feeling that danger was always near the little creature above. He kept his eyes fixed on the boat’s bottom, and slid along under her until his head brought up against the anchor line, now taut as Riley hove it short to break out the hook. This was provoking, and he opened a wicked mouth armed with rows of shark-like teeth. Then the anchor broke clear and was started upward, and the boat began to drift away in the current.

The spirit of badness took possession of him. He was annoyed. The boat would soon go away if the anchor was withdrawn, so he made a grab for it and seized the hook, or fluke, in his mouth, and started out to sea. Riley felt the sudden tug from below. He almost guessed what it was, and quick as lightning took a turn with the line about the forward seat. Then, as the boat’s headway increased rapidly, he took the bight of the line aft and seated himself so as to keep her head up and not bury in the rush. His knife was at hand ready for a sudden slash at the line in case of emergency.

“If he’ll let go abreast o’ the p’int, all right,” said Riley. “I seen lots harder ways o’ getting about than this.”

The tide was rushing out with great rapidity, and going along with it the boat fairly flew. Riley watched the shore slip past, and looked anxiously toward the lighthouse for the head keeper to see him. It would give the old man a turn, he thought, to see a boat flying through the water with the occupant sitting calmly aft taking it easy. It made him laugh outright to imagine the head keeper’s look of astonishment. Then he saw the figure of the old man standing upon the platform of the tower gazing out to sea. He roared out at the top of his voice, hoping to attract attention, but the distance was too great.

Meanwhile the sea-devil was sliding along the bottom, heading for the line of white where the surf fell over the bank of the outer bar. The hook, or fluke, of the anchor was held securely in his powerful jaws, and the force necessary to tow the following craft was felt very little. The great side fins, or flukes, merely moved with a motion which caused no exertion to such a frame, and the long tail, armed with its deadly spear of poisoned barbs, slewed slightly from right to left, steering the creature with accuracy. And while he went his mind was working, trying to think how he could get the man from the boat after he had taken him out to sea beyond any help from the shore. A sea-devil he was, and rightly named. This he very well knew, and the thought made him fearless. He had rushed many schools of mullet and other small fish, who fled in frantic terror at his approach. He had slid into a school of large porpoises, the fishermen who seldom gave way for anything, and he sent them plunging in fear for the deep water. Once he had, in sheer devilry, leaped upon a huge logger-head turtle weighing half a ton, just to see if he could take a nip of his neck before the frightened fellow could draw in his head behind the safe shelter of his shell. He could stand to the heaviest shark that had ever entered the Sound, and had once driven his spear through the jaws of a monster who had sneaked up behind him unawares and tried to get a grip upon his flukes. All had shown a wholesale respect for his powers, and he had grown more and more malignant as he grew in size and strength. Even his own family had at last sought other waters on account of his peculiarly ferocious temper.

Now he would try the new game in the craft above, and he felt little doubt as to the outcome. A sudden dash and twist might demoralize the floating tow, and as he neared the black can buoy which marked the channel, he gave a tremendous rush ahead, then a sudden sheer to the right, and with a quick slew he was heading back again in the opposite direction.

THE GREAT SHAPE SAILED FOR THE TOP OF THE BUOY.

Riley felt the sudden jerk ahead. He was as far as he wished to go down the shore, but had hesitated to cut the line in the hope that the devil would let go. Lines were not plentiful, and to lose this one meant an end to fishing for several days. The canoe shot ahead with prodigious speed. Riley seized the knife and was about to cut loose, when there was a sudden sheer to starboard, and before he could do anything the canoe was jerked quickly over upon its side. He leaped to the rail and tried to right it, but almost instantly it was whirled about and capsized. The sea-devil now dropped the anchor and turned his attention to the boat. The fluke, taking the ground in the channel, anchored the craft a few feet distant from the can buoy, and Riley was climbing upon the upturned boat’s bottom as the creature came up. Lying flat upon the keel, Riley balanced himself so as to keep clear of the sea, watching the big black can swinging to and fro in the current. If he could but seize the ring in the top he might pull himself to a place of safety.

The devil came back slowly, looking about for the occupant of the small boat. He was not in sight, and the craft was perfectly empty. This puzzled him, and he began circling around to see if he had overlooked him in the tideway. Then he saw a movement upon the boat, and made out the keeper lying upon the keel. He came slowly up to the side of the craft, and Riley saw a huge shadow rising alongside of him, spreading out a full two fathoms across the wings, or flukes. The ugly eyes were fixed upon him, and he yelled in terror. It was like some horrid nightmare, only he knew the deadly nature of the creature, and realized what a fate was in store for him once the devil had him fast.

The devil was in no hurry to rush matters, however, for now that the boat was again stationary he would investigate the subject before making an attack. He was not hungry.

Riley edged away from the huge shadow as far as he could, and called frantically for help. The can buoy swung close to him, and he looked up to see if it were possible to make the spring for the top. To miss it meant certain death. Then it swung away again, and he closed his eyes to shut out the horrid shape rising beside the boat.

The mouth of the devil was under a breadth of shovel-shaped nose, and it could not be brought to bear at once. It would necessitate a leap to grab Riley, and as the devil was in no hurry he swam slowly along the sunken gunwale waiting for a better opportunity to seize the victim. He was apparently certain of his game, and he would take his time.

Riley shrieked again and again in terror, clinging with a frantic clutch to the capsized boat.

About this time, Samuels, the keeper, who was in the tower, happened to turn around far enough to notice the black speck of the upturned boat. He was expecting Riley to show up about this time of day, and the speck upon the surface of the Sound attracted his attention. In a few moments he made it out to be the boat bottom up.

Instantly he sprang for his glasses. He saw Riley lying upon the bottom. He rushed to the beach as fast as he could and pushed out in a dory. His companion was in danger from drowning, and he would rescue him if possible. He knew nothing of the danger that lurked below the surface of the sea. The sea-devil was out of sight, and his small dorsal fin would not show any great distance.

Riley howled and clung to the bottom of the boat, while Samuels strove to reach him, and all the time the devil swam slowly fore and aft along the side trying to decide whether to make the leap or push the boat bodily over again. The last method appeared to be the least irksome, and he gave the boat a good shove with his nose.

Riley felt the heeling of the craft, and clutched frantically at the now slanting keel. She was turning over again, and in an instant he would be in the water. The thought of the ending gave him a madman’s energy. He saw the buoy swinging closer and closer to him as the craft was pushed along sideways. Then a sudden eddy of the tide swung it within a few feet of the boat.

The devil, seeing the boat turning slowly over, pushed harder. In an instant the man upon the bottom would be in the water and easy to seize. He gave a sudden shove, throwing the capsized craft almost upon its side. As he did so Riley made a last desperate effort. He arose quick as lightning and balanced for an instant on the settling canoe. Then he sprang with all his strength for the ring-bolt in the top of the buoy.

Whether it was luck or the desperate strength of despair, he just managed to get the fingers of his right hand into the ring. The can toppled over as though it would capsize and land him in the sea, but with his legs in the water almost up to his waist, it brought up on its bearings, balanced by the heavy weight below. Then he hauled himself up and tried to get his legs around the iron.

At each effort the can would twist slowly in the sea, and down he would come again into the water, holding on by the ring above his head.

The sea-devil gave the craft a tremendous push which sent it clear over, and then he slipped under it to find the game on the side beyond. The man was gone, but he saw him hanging to the buoy close by, and he gave a sudden dash to seize him. At that instant Riley clambered like a cat upon the swinging iron, and by almost superhuman balancing he sat up on the top, some four feet clear of the water, his legs swinging on either side, making frantic efforts to keep his unstable craft from turning around in the current and spilling him into the death-trap which now lurked below in plain view. He prayed for a whale iron, and screamed for help. Then he swore furiously and madly at the shape with the stony eyes which, as implacable as death itself, lay watching him as though certain of the ultimate outcome of the affair. Without even his knife he would not be able to make the least resistance. A harpoon iron would have fixed things differently. Oh, for one to throw at the hideous thing waiting for him! How he would like to see the barbs sink into that hard hide and pierce its vitals. He raved at it, and cursed it frantically, but the sea-devil lay there silently watching, knowing well that it was but a question of a few minutes before he would be at his mercy.

The hot afternoon sun beat pitilessly upon the clinging wretch upon the can buoy, and the heat upon his bare head made the water dance about him. But to lose his balance was fatal, and he clung and cried, prayed and screamed, cursed and raved, alternately, adjusting his trembling body to each movement of his float.

As the minutes flew by, Samuels, who was rowing to him with rapid strokes, heard his outcries, and turned to look. He could not understand the man’s wild terror. It was evident that there was no time to lose, and he bent to the oars again. Suddenly he heard a piercing scream. He turned, and in time to see a great shape rise from the water like a gigantic bat, and sail right for the top of the can buoy. It struck it fair, and the thud of the huge body resounded over the sea. Then it fell slanting off into the water with a great splash, and when he looked at the top of the can there was nothing but a piece of blue cloth hanging to the ring-bolt. Riley was gone.

In an instant Samuels sprang to his feet and stood looking at the eddying current, paralyzed with horror at the sight. The hot sunshine and smooth sea were still all around him, but the monstrous shape had disappeared and his companion along with it. Now he knew why Riley had screamed and cursed so frantically. It was not the fear of drowning that had called forth such madness. But even while he stood there in the sunlight a horrible nightmare seemed to be taking possession of him, and he was trembling and helpless. He gave a hoarse cry and set his teeth to control his shaking nerves. Then his brain began its normal working again, and he seized his oars and gave several tremendous strokes in the direction of the buoy, looking over his shoulder and feeling his scalp tightening upon his head. There was a cold chill in his blood, as though the weather were winter instead of torrid July.

Suddenly something showed on the surface just under the boat’s bow. He shivered in spite of himself, but the thought of his comrade nerved him for the ordeal. He sprang forward, knife in hand, to seize it if it were Riley’s form, or face the monster if he appeared. A white hand came slowly upward. With a desperate effort Samuels reached over and jerked the form of his assistant into the boat, and as he did so a huge shadow darkened the water beneath him.

The sea-devil, carried along by the momentum of his rush, had knocked his victim into the water from the buoy top, but had swept past him before he could swing about far enough to seize him in his jaws. This was all that saved Riley.

Instantly Samuels, who had a stout craft, seized his oars and pulled for the lighthouse, gazing fixedly upon the smooth water astern of him, and shivering with a nervous shake at each ripple in the wake of his boat, lest it were made by the denizen below the surface. But nothing followed. The Sound was as smooth as glass, and the sunshine and silence were undisturbed. The great ray had missed his victim, and was swimming slowly around the can buoy looking for him. He had failed to notice Samuels pick him up, although he had seen his boat pass.

While Samuels watched astern he saw the capsized craft near the buoy move suddenly, as though some power were exerted upon it from below. The sight caused him to bend with renewed vigor to his oars, and, with his heart sending his blood jerking through his temples with a pulse he seemed almost to hear, he drove his boat for the beach and landed safely. As he did so Riley sat up and looked about him with eyes that were like those of a man in a dream. His lips were swollen to a livid blue and he puffed through them, making a ghastly sound as they quivered with his breath. Samuels spoke to him, but he would only gaze about him and make the blowing noise with his mouth. Then the elder keeper took him gently by the arm and led him painfully up the sand to the lighthouse dwelling. The next day the victim was raving. It would take a long time for the poor fellow to regain his equilibrium, and absolute rest and quiet were the only thing that would steady the terribly shaken nerves. Samuels took the man to the nearest town, and then went back to tend the light alone.

The following week Samuels spent brooding over the horrible affair. The log of the keeper refers to it several times, and it was like a wild nightmare to him during his watch on the tower during darkness. During the daytime he thought of it continually, and began to devise different methods for the capture of the sea-devil, which he believed to be still in the entrance of the Sound. He had sent word of the unfortunate Riley’s condition to the inspector, and was tending the light alone when the new assistant came to relieve him. When he arrived he found Samuels hard at work upon a set of harpoons and lines which he had been preparing for his hunt, while a couple of large shark-hooks lay in the small boat ready baited. Two small boats were made ready, and the shark-hooks and lines were placed in one. The other contained five lilly-irons of the grummet-and-toggle pattern and two hundred fathoms of small line capable of holding the small boat while being towed at any speed. With this outfit they began to spend the days upon the waters of the Sound, rowing in company to the various fishing drops, and trying for a bite upon the great hooks.

Not a sign of the sea-devil had there been since the day the keeper had met him. The weather was clear and fine, and the sea smooth. Nothing rose to break the even surface. But Samuels hunted quietly on, never losing faith that some day the monster would break water again and give him a chance for either a harpoon or hook. In his boat he carried a long whale lance with its heart-shaped head as sharp as a razor, covered in a wooden scabbard to keep off the dampness. It would penetrate any living body a full fathom, and nothing of flesh and blood could withstand its stroke.

The sixth day out the new keeper began to give up hope of seeing anything like the game they sought. He carried ordinary hand lines, and busied himself fishing during their stays at the different drops. Sea bass, drum, and sheeps-head were biting lively, and he managed to make good use of the time they were away from the light. Toward the late afternoon the fish suddenly stopped biting. It was the beginning of the flood tide, and therefore not in keeping with the usual state of affairs. Something was the matter, and Samuels began to pay attention to his shark lines.

In a short time one of them began to go in little jerks. It was loose, with a turn around a cleat so that it might run with any sudden pull. Then it began to go steadily, going faster and faster, as fathom after fathom of it flaked overboard. As a shark is never jerked for some moments after he has taken bait, on account of his habit of holding a morsel in his mouth sometimes for minutes before swallowing it, the line was let run. After a shark gets it well in hand he suddenly bolts the food and makes off. Then is the time to set back with a full force upon the line in order to drive the barb of the hook into his tough throat. The chain leader of the hook will then be the only thing he can set his teeth upon, and he will be fast if the barb once gets under the tough hide.

Samuels let the line go for nearly a minute before a quickening in the movement told him that the fellow at the other end had swallowed the bait and was making away. Then rising slowly to his feet he let the line run through his fingers until he took a good brace upon the seat of his boat with his foot. Then he grasped the line suddenly with both hands, and setting back upon it with all his strength he stopped it for an instant. The next moment there was a whir of whistling line. He had dropped it and it was flying overboard. Before ten fathoms of line had gone, Samuels had it on the cleat again and was snubbing it in jerks which sent his boat as deep as her after gunwale. Soon, however, the line began to give a little. Foot by foot he hauled it in, until a long dark form showed beneath the surface of the water. It was only a shark after all, and he was given a taste of the whale lance to quiet him.

While he was engaged in this he heard a sudden roar behind him, and he turned in time to see a gigantic form disappear in a tremendous smother of foam. It sounded like a small cannon, and he well knew there was only one creature in the Sound that could break water with such a rush and smash.

The shark was forgotten, and as soon as possible the hook was rebaited and cast. The other line was now watched, and the painter of the other boat was passed over to make them tow together if the line should be taken.

Suddenly the new keeper, who had been looking steadily over the side into the clear water, gave a shout and pointed below.

Just a fathom beneath the boat’s keel a gigantic shadow drew slowly up. It was a giant ray, the dreaded sea-devil they had been waiting for.

Samuels gazed down at it and could see the stony eyes fixed upon him. Grasping a harpoon he sent it with all his force down into the depths. It was a wild throw. But he had waited so long that he could not miss any chance.

The long shank of the iron disappeared in the foam of the splash. Then there was a moment’s pause. Almost instantly afterwards the line was flying furiously over the side. The toggle had penetrated, and they were fast.

The assistant keeper tossed over the anchor buoys to mark the slipped moorings, and then Samuels snubbed the line.

Instantly the boats were jerked half under water. Settling back as far as they could, they both tried to keep the bows of the towing craft from being towed under, and the line had to be slacked again and again to save them. Away they went, one behind the other, the ray leading, Samuels’ boat next, with him in the stern-sheets, holding a turn of the line which led over the runner in the stem, and the new keeper, standing with steering oar in hand, slewing his flying craft first one side and then the other to keep dead in the wake.

The breeze making from the sea sent the spray over the boats in sheets, but they held on. The devil was heading for the bar under full speed, for the iron had pricked him sorely in the side, and he was a little taken aback at this sudden reception. He could not yet grasp the situation, and would circle about before coming close to the small craft again. But there was something dragging upon him that began to cause alarm. There was a line to the thing that pricked so sore. The feeling at first caused a desire to escape from the unknown enemy, but gradually as the pain increased anger began to take the place of fright, and he tried to find out just who his enemies were. He swerved near the can buoy and broached clear of the sea to get a better view. The crash he made as he struck the sea again sent the spray high in the air, and the line was whirled out with renewed force.

But the men behind him had no thought of letting go. With lance in hand Samuels waited patiently for a chance to haul line. As long as the toggle would hold there was little chance for the iron drawing, for the skin of the ray was as tough as leather, and the flesh beneath it was firm.

On and on they went, the flood tide setting strong against them. The swell from beyond the bar was now felt, and the ocean sparkled in the sunshine where it was ruffled by the outside breeze. Two, three miles were traversed, but there was no slacking of the tremendous pace. The ray evidently intended to get to sea before attempting to make any change in his actions. He was going at a ten-knot gait, keeping now close to the bottom, and heading right through the north breaker, which rolled in curved lines of white foam upon the bar. The channel he cared not the least for, and Samuels watched the roaring line of white with concern. The small boats would make bad weather of the surf, even though the sea was smooth, for the swell rose high and fell heavily, making a deep rumbling snore which grew louder and louder as they approached. Far away the lighthouse shone in the sunshine, and the buoys stood out like black specks to mark the way through the channel.

Samuels got out his hatchet ready for a sudden cut at the line if the surf proved too dangerous. They were nearing the inner line of breakers, and it would be only a matter of minutes before they were either through or swamped. There must be some hasty judgment, but it must be as accurate as it would be hasty, for there would be no chance to change his mind when the water rose ahead. It was breaking in a good fathom and more.

The sea-devil seemed to know what was in store for the boats towing behind. He broached again and took a good look astern where they flew along behind him. Then with redoubled speed he tore through the inner line of breaking water, and before Samuels could grab the hatchet to cut loose, his boat rose upon a crested breaker and plunged headlong over into the trough beyond, pulling the assistant through, and almost swamping him. It was now too late to let go. Ahead was another wall of rising water which would break in an instant, and the only thing to do was to go on and trust to the boat’s riding over it all right. To turn the slightest, one side or the other, meant to be rolled over in the rush of foam.

Samuels held on grimly. Once outside he hoped to haul line and come to close quarters with the devil. Then he would deal with him in a more satisfactory manner. That long lance would be brought into play, and the fight would be with the odds upon his side. But he had reckoned somewhat hastily with this outcast of the ocean. All the fearless cunning of the sea-scavenger was being brought into play. The pain in his side where the iron held was making him more and more savage. He saw it was useless to run away, for the iron held his pursuers to him. He had only intended to make a short run at the beginning, and then turn to meet whatever there was in the shape of a foe. There was little fear in his make-up. The sudden alarm at the stroke of the iron was merely the natural instinct of the wild creature to keep out of harm’s way. He had intended to come back and try his hand with the small craft, only he would not run into unknown trouble. It would be wiser to take things easy and approach the matter slowly, watching a good chance to make a rush in when a fitting opportunity occurred. But because he would go slow he would be none the less implacable. He had never withdrawn from a fight yet, and his peculiar tenacity had more than once brought him off victor when the odds were against him. He was wary—an old wary fighter who began the struggle slowly only to learn the forces opposed to him. When the issue was well begun he would break forth in a fury unequaled in any other denizen of the ocean. The continual pain of the pulling-iron was now goading him into a condition of frenzied fury. In a moment he would turn, just as soon as he had the small craft well into the foaming water, where he knew it would be difficult to navigate.

Samuels had thought of the ray’s probable run for shoal water, and dreaded coming up with him in the surf. He could not turn his small boat broadside to the breakers without getting rolled over and swamped, and his oars would be useless to pull clear with the iron fast. He hoped the ray would make for the bottom in the deep water beyond and pull him through. Just as the outer breaker rose ahead the line suddenly slacked.

This was what Samuels dreaded most, and he began to haul in hand over hand. Instead, however, of the line leading ahead, it suddenly let off to starboard, and he was forced to let it go and take to his oars to keep the boat’s head to the sea that was now upon her. He called to the new keeper, who let go the line between the boats, to take out his oars also. Both now headed straight for the crest, which instantly broke over them, half filling Samuels’ craft and settling her almost to the gunwales. At that moment the line came taut with a jerk. It swung the boat’s head off broadside to the sea, and the next minute the breaker rolled her over and over. As it did so a giant form rose like a huge bat from the foam with mouth agape and flukes extended, its tail stretching out behind, and the line from the harpoon trailing. Down it came with a crash which resounded above the roar of the surf, and the boat disappeared from view.

Samuels had by good luck been thrown clear of the craft when the sea struck, and his head appeared a fathom distant just as the devil crashed down. It was a close call. Then, as the half-sinking boat returned slowly, bottom up, to the surface, he made for it with all speed.

Beside it floated the long wooden handle of the lance, the blade resting upon the bottom a fathom below. He seized it as he grasped the keel, and calling for the keeper in the other boat to look out, he made ready for the devil’s return, for the line was not pulling the boat away, showing that the slack had not been taken up, and that the creature was still close by.

He was not wrong in this. The huge devil swerved almost as soon as he disappeared below the surface and headed back again slowly to where the boat lay in the foam of the breaker. He kept close to the bottom and came like a shadow over the sand.

The sun was shining brightly and objects could be seen easily. Samuels soon made out a dark object creeping up from the side where the ray had gone down. The water was hardly over his head when the seas broke, and between them it was not more than four and a half feet deep. He could keep his head out and his feet upon the sand until the rising crest would lift him clear, when, by holding to the upturned boat’s keel, he could keep his head out until the breaker had passed, the tide setting him rapidly towards the deeper water inside the bar.

The keeper in the other boat saw the shadow and called out, at the same time getting a harpoon ready and resting upon his oars. The smooth between breakers gave both a good chance to note the position of the approaching monster.

The sea-devil came slowly up, his eyes showing through the clear water and the line from the iron trailing behind him. When within a couple of fathoms he made a sudden rush at the capsized boat.

The new keeper threw his iron well. It landed fairly in the top of the broad back and sank deep, but it did not in the least stop the savage rush. The huge bulk rose to the surface at the instant the iron struck and came straight for Samuels, who held the lance ready in one hand and clung to the keel of his boat with the other. He drove the long, sharp weapon a full two feet into the monster’s vitals and then ducked behind the sunken gunwale to avoid the teeth.

There was a terrific commotion in the sea. The devil bit savagely at Samuels’ arm, but missed it, his teeth coming upon the gunwale of the boat and shearing out a piece. Then he gave a tremendous rush upon the craft and drove it before him until it disappeared under the surface. The great ray smote the sea with his flukes and strove after his prey, but the lance was firmly planted in him, and, try as he might, he could get no nearer than the length of the handle to the keeper, for with this grasped firmly in both hands Samuels went below the surface only to get his foothold again and reappear to be driven along before the furious creature.

Meanwhile the new keeper came hauling line from the rear. There was a smooth between the seas, and he pulled the boat close to the floundering devil before he knew what was taking place. Then, with three irons ready, he drove one after the other in quick succession into the monster. Taken from the rear in this manner the devil whirled about. His barbed spear in his tail he drove with accuracy at the form in the boat, striking the keeper in the thick of the thigh and piercing it through and through. He fell with a yell, clutching the boat to keep from being drawn overboard, and the spear broke off short, the poisonous barbs remaining in the flesh.

The sudden diversion saved Samuels. He managed to withdraw his lance, and by an almost superhuman effort he drove it again into the devil just as a sea broke over him. When he came to the surface again he was exhausted and expected to fall a victim, but the great creature made no attack and only swam around in a circle, apparently dazed.

Samuels lost no time in getting aboard the still floating craft, taking the towline with him. She was full of water from the breaker which had rolled in, but it had struck her fairly in the bow and she would float a little longer. He reached for the oars and held her head to the sea, while the other raised himself in spite of the agony of his poisoned wound and bailed for his life.

The sea-devil was mortally hurt and was failing fast. He came to the surface and made one blind rush at the boat, but he missed and received the last iron fairly between the eyes. Then he began to go slowly away, following the flood tide, and towing both boats in through the breakers to the smooth water beyond. In a short time the motion ceased, and Samuels hauled in the lines until he was just over the body in two fathoms of water and clear of the surf on the bar. Then he turned his attention to his wounded comrade, and by great force pulled the long, barbed spine through the flesh of his thigh and sucked the wound. As the tide was flooding, they left the capsized boat fast to the devil on the bottom below, knowing it would not get far adrift, and made their way to the light, where the keeper’s wound was carefully cauterized and bound up.

The great ray lay quiet for some time, his flukes acting as suckers to hold him down. Then, the feeling that his end was at hand coming gradually upon him, he fought against the deadly weakness of his wounds. Summing up all the remaining energy within his giant frame, he rose to the surface to make one last, desperate rally and annihilate the towing craft. He breached clear of the sea and fell with a resounding crash upon the fabric, smashing it completely. Then he tore it with his teeth and flung the splinters broadcast, reaching wildly for anything which looked like a human form. Then he suddenly stopped and a quiver passed through him. He gave a mighty smash with his flukes upon the remains of the boat, and then his life went out. He sank slowly down upon the clean sand below, and the ground-sharks of the reef came silently in to their feast.

THE SEA DOG

THE SEADOG

He was a yellow brute, mangy, lean, and treacherous-looking. He had been in two ships where dogs were not particularly liked by the officers, and the last one had gone ashore in the darkness during a northeast gale off the Frying Pan. How he had come ashore from the wreck was a detail beyond his reasoning. Here he was on the beach of North Carolina, and not one of his shipmates was left to take care of him.

He had at first foraged among the bushes of beach myrtle and through the pine woods, stealing into the light-keeper’s yard at Bald Head during the hours of darkness, and rummaging through his garbage for a bit of food to keep the life within his mangy hide. He had now been ashore for nearly five months, and during all that time he had shown an aversion to the light-keeper’s society. There was no other human habitation on the island, and the light-keeper had fired a charge of bird-shot at him on two occasions. This had not given him greater confidence in strangers, and that which he had had was of a suspicious kind, born and nurtured aboard ship, where a kick was the usual salutation. He was as sly as a wolf and as wild as a razor-back hog, for he had gradually fallen upon the resources of the wild animal, and his one thought was for himself.

He had broken away into the night howling after the last reception by the light-keeper at the Bald Head tower, and sore and stiff he had crawled into the bushes to pick at the tiny pellets that stung so fiercely. In the future he would be more careful. He must watch. Eternal vigilance was the price for his worthless life. All the evil desires and instincts begotten through a line of rascally curs now began to grow within him. He would not repress them, for was it not manifest that he must exercise every selfish desire to its utmost if he would live? His eyes took on that wild, hunted look of the beast with whom all are at war, and his teeth showed fiercely at each and every sound. A sullen savageness of mind came upon him more and more every day, until after these months of wildness he had dropped back again into the natural state of his forefathers. He was a wild dog in every sense. As wild as the hogs who rooted through the pine woods or tore through the swamp, lean as deer and alert to every danger, the degenerates of the well-bred pigs of the early settlers.

Sometimes he would run along the edge of the beach in the sunlight and watch the surf, but even this was dangerous, for once the light-keeper happened to be out hunting and sent a rifle bullet singing past his ears. He broke for cover again, and seldom ventured forth except after the sun went down. In the daytime he would go slinking through the gloom of the dense thickets with ears cocked and senses alert, watching like a wolf for the slightest sign of danger. A wolf is seldom seen unless he means to be, and the yellow dog soon became as retiring.

Small game furnished food during this season, for the creeks swarmed with fish and crabs, which were often caught in shallows at low water, and gophers were plentiful, but sometimes when the wind was howling and soughing through the forest, and the rain rattling and whistling through the clearings, he would try the light-keeper’s back yard again, and grab a defenseless duck or goose that happened to be within reach. Their squawking was music to his ears, for he remembered the flash and stinging pain following his earlier attempts to procure food, and he would dash furiously through the timber with his prize, nor stop until many miles were between him and the bright eye that flamed high in the air above and could be seen fifteen miles or more up the beach. The lighthouse was an excellent guide for him in all kinds of weather, but it was especially useful on very dark and stormy nights. To him it meant a guide out of danger, even as it did to his earlier masters, and he soon learned to navigate by it.

He grew more and more savage as his life in the wilderness went on, and as his savageness increased so likewise did his cunning.

William Ripley, the light-keeper, and his assistant, were both good hunters. They had plenty of time during daylight to make long excursions along the beach, and through the pine woods, and they often brought home a hog or two. They were worried at the visits from the strange animal who left footprints like those of a dog, and who kept always well out of sight after his first visits, when a glimpse of yellow had flashed through the darkness, giving something tangible to fire at. They had seen the vessel come ashore on the outer shoals, some twelve miles away, and had seen her gradually break up without being able to lend a hand at saving her crew. Nothing had washed on the beach that had signs of life, and it had never occurred to them that a yellow dog had been a survivor of that tragedy. The wreck had been visited afterwards, and the vessel’s name discovered, but nothing was ever heard of the men who had manned her, and who had evidently gone to the port of missing ships. Their interest in the matter ended after getting a few fathoms of line and a bit of iron-work, and the shifting sands of the treacherous Frying Pan soon swallowed up all trace of the disaster.

But ducks and geese were scarce and valuable. There was a thief abroad, and something must be done. The cold weather was approaching, and already frost had turned the leaves of some of the trees. Soon a slight fall of snow announced that winter was upon the coast in earnest.

The cold was hard upon the outcast. His thin hair was but poor protection against the wind, and the food of the creeks was disappearing. He was getting more and more savage and desperate, and the great eye that shone above him through the blackness was attractive, for it showed where there lay plenty. Often, when the gale blew from the northward, and the weather was thick, the wild ducks and geese came rushing down the wind and headed for the eye that shone so brightly in the night. It had a peculiar dazzling fascination for them, and they would go driving at it with a rush of a hundred miles an hour, only to find too late that it was surrounded by a heavy wire net. Then, before they could swerve off, they were upon it with a terrific smash. Headlong into the iron meshes they would drive until, flattened and distorted lumps of flesh and feathers, they would go tumbling down to the ground beneath. In the morning the keeper would see traces of their feathers and sometimes a duck or two, but more often he saw the footprints of the strange animal that so resembled either a dog or wolf.

“I reckon it’s about time we caught up with that un,” said Ripley, one morning; “there aint been no wolves around this here island sence I kin remember, an’ I’m bound to find out jest what kind o’ critter this one is. Why, what d’ye s’pose he done last night, hey?”

“Don’t ask me no riddles when I’m sleepy,” said the assistant.

“Oh, well, it’s no matter, then,” said Ripley, and he turned into the house.

“Well, what?” asked the assistant.

“The first thing he done was to eat the seat out’n your pants you left hangin’ on the line, but that’s no matter——”

“What next?” asked the assistant, awakening a little.

“Well, he chewed the uppers off’n your rubber boots, them ones you said cost five dollars——”

“Name o’ sin, no! Did he? Where’s the gun, quick——”

“Hold on a bit. Wait a minute,” interrupted Ripley. “There aint no hurry about the case. I was jest a-sayin’——”

“Go on,” said the assistant earnestly.

“Well, then, don’t interrupt me no more. That blamed critter got old red-head by th’ neck an’ walked off with him, an’ there aint no better rooster ever been hatched. That’s erbout all.”

“You kin hand me down the rifle,” said the assistant; “that critter or me leaves this here island, an’ that’s a fact.”

The track led down the beach, and there was no trouble following it. The assistant started off at a swinging pace, determined to cover the distance between himself and the thief before midday.

But the track soon led into the scrub and was lost. When it was taken up again it was a good half-mile farther down the shore. Here it swung along easily for a short distance until a heavy belt of timber was reached, and where the ground was hard and covered with pine-needles. There all trace of it was swallowed up as soon as it struck the pines. The assistant came home that evening a tired but no wiser man. That night the outcast saw the man-tracks, and knew he had been followed, and the spirit of deviltry entered deeper into his pariah soul. He would make them sorry for his nightly visits. All were enemies to him, and the more harm he could do to everything alive the better it would be. Savagely he snarled at the footprints. As the moon rose he saw the beautiful light silvering the cold ocean, and it stirred something in his hard heart. He raised his nose high in the air and let forth a long howl of fierce defiance and wrath.

Slinking through the darkening shadows of the forest, the outcast made his way to the clearing wherein the great eye rose above the ground to the height of a hundred feet or more. Here he halted upon the outer edge, where the thicket hid him in its black shadow. Then he raised his voice in such a prolonged howl that the fowls secured within the coops of the yard set up a vast cackling. He changed his position in time to avoid a charge of buckshot which tore through the thicket and rattled about the leaves beneath the trees. Then he slunk away for a little while, only to return again and give vent to his feelings in a succession of yelping barks, such as had never disturbed the quiet of the island before. Another charge of shot rattled about him, but he was now far too wary to get hit, and his hatred was greater than his fear. It gave him a savage joy to listen to the crack of the gun or the sharper snap of the rifle, for he knew it worried the keeper to hear him and know he was near. Night after night he now came, and many were the shots fired at him, but all to no avail. He would do any mischief he could, and woe to any duck or chicken that came within his reach. His high, yelping howl resounded through the clearing and sounded above the dull roar of the surf, making night hideous to the keeper on watch in the light above.

Once he caught a loose fowl, and its feathers were strewn about the yard. Again he found a string of fine fish the keeper had hung up for the night. They went the way of the ill-fated. His keen sense of smell told him many things the keepers did not wish him to know, and he managed to keep out of harm’s way.

But this could not last. Ripley was an old hunter, and was not to be disturbed beyond reason. He brought out an old mink-trap, with steel jaws of great power, and he buried it in the sand on the edge of the clearing, smoothing the rumpled surface of the ground so that nothing showed, and strewing the place with dead leaves. Then he killed a sea-gull and dropped it almost directly over the steel jaws. The outcast would doubtless smell it and stop a moment to investigate. He had only to step upon the ground in the near vicinity and his leg would be instantly clasped in a steel embrace.

The first night the keeper watched for him. It was very dark, and the cold north wind soughed through the pines, and the surf thundered. The cold made the keeper’s teeth chatter a little as he watched in silence from his place upon the outer rail of the tower. He had his rifle with him for a finish, should the trap take hold.

The outcast came slinking along late that night. He was hungry and wet, and the light attracted him as it did always on particularly bad nights, for it stood for the mark of plenty, the only thing on the barren island that kept a glimmering of the past in his sullen mind. He noticed a peculiar smell as he skirted the fringe of the cover, and soon spied the dead gull. How came it there, was the question. Gulls did not die ashore. At least, he had never seen one. But he knew them in the air. There was something suspicious in the matter. Why should a gull be dead so close to the lighthouse? He began to investigate, and drew near the danger zone.

But months of wildness had made him cunning. All the sly instincts of the races of animals from which he had sprung had been developing. He approached the bait slowly, barely moving, and touching the ground ever so lightly with his paws. Then he halted. No, it would not do. There was something wrong with that bird, showing like a bit of white in the darkness. He could smell it plainly. It was the scent of a man. He drew slowly off, and began nosing about for the trail, and soon found it. He followed along, and it led straight to the dwelling where the keeper lived. Then he went back a little way into the scrub and sat upon his haunches, and, in spite of his cold and hunger, he lifted up his voice in a long, dismal howl, that to the keeper’s ears had an unmistakable ring of derision.

Night after night the trap was set, but the pariah kept clear. Then, one day, it grew thick, and a cold wind began setting in from the sea. Before night it was howling and snoring away with hurricane force, driving the seas roaring up the sands, and tearing their tops into smothers of snowy spume drift.

The pariah came to the beach and tried to look seaward to see what was coming with that fearful rushing blast, but the wind was so strong and the snow so blinding that he soon took to the cover, and headed for the light, in the hope he might pick up something to eat in the vicinity of the keeper’s dwelling. Before going to the yard he looked again seaward and saw a light flash out. He did not know what it meant, but he knew it was off on the Frying Pan, far out on the treacherous shoals where a thundering smother of rolling whiteness flashed and gleamed now and again. Then he skirted the clearing, and brought up back of the fowl-house, where now all the ducks and chickens were secured at night.

He went forward, trying to smell his way, but the snow was too much for him. Then he stopped a moment. He located the house and started again, when suddenly, “Snap!”

Something had leaped from the ground and seized his foreleg in a viselike grip. He sprang forward and fought to get away, but it was of no use. The thing had him fast with an awful grasp that cut into his flesh and squeezed his leg so tight that it soon became numb. With snarling growls, he fought desperately on, twisting and turning, struggling and biting, but all to no purpose. He was fast. Then the state of affairs began to dawn upon him, and he desisted, for the agony was supreme. Sitting there in the flying snow of the winter’s night, with the roar of the storm sounding over him, he raised his voice in a long, yelping bark of challenge and disdain.

But in spite of his howling no one came near him. The snow grew deeper and the wind roared with terrific force, blinding him so that the great eye above was scarcely visible. He remained quiet now, and waited patiently for the daylight, which would mean his end. His sufferings were terrible, but he could not help it, and soon a sullen stupor came upon him.

In the dim gray of the early morning forms were seen walking about the lighthouse. They were men, and among them was the keeper. The others wore clothes that reminded the pariah of former days, and one stranger seemed to be familiar to him. This was a man, short, broad, and bearded, with bow legs set wide apart, and long arms with huge hands and crooked fingers. He was ugly, and reminded him of the crabs he had seen and captured in the streams during the summer. There was something of the crab about the queer little fellow, and his very ugliness attracted the dog’s attention. It brought back some memory of past days, a memory that was not all unpleasant, yet indistinct and unreal.

As the day dawned and the snow grew deeper the outcast waited no longer. He held up his nose and let forth a howl that was heard above the snore of the gale, and which brought the light-keeper to attention. He came running with a club, and behind him followed the stranger with the crablike body.

“Sink me if I aint got ye at last, ye varmint!” yelled the keeper as he drew near. Then he halted. “A dog—what—jest a common everyday dog? But I’ll make a good dog out o’ ye in a minute. All dead dogs is good dogs, an’ you’ll do.”

He advanced with raised club, and the pariah crouched for a spring. He would try for one last good bite. All the savageness of his mixed blood surged through his fierce mind. He gave a low growl and showed his teeth, and his eyes were like bits of yellow flame.

“Hold on thar, stranger; don’t kill that ’ar dog. Wait a bit,” said the ugly man, waddling up behind. “What, caught ’im in a trap?”

“Sure I got him in a trap. D’ye want me to loose him?” asked the keeper testily.

“That’s erbout the size o’ my games,” said the ugly man. “Yew may think it a go, but that ’ar dog looks uncommon like the one I lost aboard the Seagull when she went ashore hereabouts last year. He ware a good dog, part wolf, part hound, and the rest a mixture I don’t exactly remember. Lemme try ’im?”

“Gwan, man; that critter is been stealin’ chickens since last summer,” said the keeper, but at the same time he allowed the ugly fellow to have his way.

“Hey, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy!” said the ugly sailor. “Don’t yew know me, Sammy?” And he bent forward toward him.

The pariah gazed at him. What did he mean? What was that voice? It sounded like that of the man who had brought him aboard the vessel he had gone ashore in. The only human who had never struck him or offered him harm. He hardly remembered the ugly fellow, for he had only been in the ship a short time before she was lost.

“Strange, that looks like the critter sure enough. I went ashore here in the Seagull a year ago, an’ here I goes ashore agin in this howlin’ wind an’ sees the dog I lost. Strange, keeper, it’s strange, hey?”

“He do appear to know ye, an’ that’s a fact,” said the keeper. “Would ye like me to loose him off? Better do it afore the assistant comes down, fer he’s got it in fer this dog.”

“Wait a bit,” said the ugly fellow, and he advanced closer to the outcast. He put out his hand, and the dog wavered. Should he seize it? He could crush it and tear it badly in his teeth before he could withdraw it, and they would probably kill him anyway in the end. But there was something in the ugly man’s eye that restrained him—something that spoke of former times when all was not strife. No, he would not bite him.

“Turn the critter loose; he’s my dog fer sure,” said the ugly man. “All he wants is some grub. I reckon yew’d be savage, too, if yew had been out in the snow all night. I knows I ware when I come in half drowned this mornin’.”

The keeper pried the trap open and the cur went free.

“Come, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy!” said the ugly fellow, and he led the way to the house.

The pariah hesitated. His foot was useless, but he could go on three legs. There was the timber a short distance away. He looked at it for an instant. Then he saw the ugly man beckoning with his great crooked finger. He lowered his head and gave a short whine. Then he limped slowly after him to the house.

A little later the ugly man fed him and bound up the wounded paw, while the assistant mumbled something about rubber boots and breeches worth about seven dollars a pair.

“Messmates,” said the ugly sailor, shifting his crablike body and sticking out his great bushy face with its red beard, “that ’ar dog ware a good dog, part wolf, part hound, an’ the rest I don’t exactly recollect, but he ware a good dog. Treat a dog good an’ he’ll be a good dog. Treat ’im bad an’ he’ll be a bad dog. When ye go erbout more among men, as I does, yew’ll see that what I says is so. An’ men is mostly like dogs.”

The assistant kept quiet, for there was something peculiarly aggressive in that misshapen man. The animal was led away with a string, and went in the boat to Wilmington with the wrecked crew.

Two years later another ship was added to the list of those whose bones rest in the sands of the Frying Pan Shoals. She ran on the outer breaker during the night, and in the morning the keeper saw a floating object on the shore. He went to it and found the body of a man whose peculiar figure he recognized. A life-buoy was strapped about his waist, and in his great crooked fingers was a line. The keeper hauled it in, and on the end of it he found the dead body of the yellow beast that had stolen his fowls. They had gone to their end together.

THE CAPE HORNERS

THE CAPE HORNERS

To the southward of where the backbone of the western hemisphere dips beneath the sea rises a group of ragged, storm-swept crags and peaks,—the wild rocks of the Diego Ramirez. Past them flows the current of the great Antarctic Drift, sweeping from the father of all oceans—the vast South Pacific,—away to the eastward, past the bleak pinnacles of Cape Horn, to disperse itself through the Lemaire Strait and Falkland Channel northward into the Atlantic Ocean.

With the wild snore of the great west wind sounding over them, and the chaotic thunder of the Pacific Ocean falling upon their sides, they are lonely and inhospitable, and are seldom, if ever, visited by man. Only now and then he sees them, when the wind-jammer fighting to go past the last corner gets driven close in to the land of fire. Then, on some bleak and dreary morning, when the west wind is roaring through downhaul and clewline and under the storm topsails, the heavy drift may break away for a few minutes and show the wary navigator a glimpse of the death-trap under his lee that will add a few gray hairs to his head, and bring the watch below tumbling on deck to man the braces.

Bare of vegetation and desolate as they are, the rocks are inhabited. To the leeward of the great Cape Horn sea that crashes upon them, the ledges and shelves are full of life. In the shelter, the strange forms sit and gaze seaward, peering this way and that, squawking and scolding in hoarse voices that might be heard above the surf-thunder. They appear like great geese sitting on their tails, for they sit upright, their feet being placed well down on their long bodies, giving them a grotesque look that is sometimes absurdly human.

They have no wings,—only little rudiments covered with fine hairlike feathers that serve as side fins when swimming. They never flap them, as do their cousins, the Cape pigeons and albatrosses. In fact, their bodies are covered with short, close, hairlike feathers, very minute, seldom wider than a pencil’s point, and lying tight to the skin, like scales on a fish. These figures have birdlike heads, not unlike those of diver-ducks, and they have beautiful black eyes, with red rings around them. They are the creatures that hold sway over the barren crags, waddling and walking about in their absurd way until a great man-seal shows his bristling whiskers close to the ledge. Then they gave forth the loud, long-drawn, wild cry that is so well known to the Cape Horner, waddle to the brink, plunge headlong into the sea, and disappear.

They are the penguins of the southern zone, half bird, half fish, and, one might say, half human, to judge by their upright waddle on their webbed feet.

The one whose story is now to be told was hatched on the Ramirez, high above the lift of the Cape sea, and beyond the reach of straying seals.

He belonged to a brood of three, and first saw the light a little after New Year’s Day, or midsummer there. There was no sheltering nest to guard him against the bleak wind, which is nearly as cold in summer as in winter. He came into the world on a bare rock and announced himself by a strange, chirping sound that caused his mother to waddle off a few feet and gaze at him in astonishment. He was followed by his two brothers, and, within a very short time, showed an inclination to follow his parent down the ledge and into the dark water where the kelp weed floated in sheltered spots between the rocks. He was but a fluffy ball, of the size of a baby’s fist, but he stood with dignity upon his short legs and labored over the rough places, sometimes falling and rolling over a step in the rock until, with a splash, he landed in the sea.

At last! That was the place he was meant for. How fine it was to scull one’s self furiously along the surface and then suddenly dive and go shooting through the depths, coming up again to see if his parent were at hand; for, in spite of the delightful novelty of life, there was within him a strange feeling of fear, something that made him seek his mother’s side continually. The heavy snore of the great Cape Horn sea, breaking to windward of the rocks, sounded a deep note of menace, a warning of the fierce, wild world in which only the hardiest could hope to survive, and yet it seemed to tell of a power that ruled his destiny.

His brothers swam near, and he was joined by countless myriads of other birds. With penguins, strength ashore exists solely in numbers, and the bare cliffs must be covered with sturdy birds ready to snap and strike fiercely with their strong, sharp beaks at each and every intruder, if they would have security. Woe to the albatross or mollemoke that attempts a landing on the sacred shore! He will be met by an army of powerful birds walking erect as soldiers and stabbing and biting with incredible power.

Soon this young one’s downy feathers hardened. They did not grow like those of an ordinary bird. They were hardened almost to bone, and pressed so stiff against his skin that it would be difficult to distinguish them from the scales of a rockfish or a cod. His wings were no more than flippers, exactly like those of a turtle, and were without a bending joint at the pinion. They were devoid of feathers also, but, as he would never use them in the air, this made it all the better. They could scull him along faster under the sea. Already he could go fast enough to catch any fish in the vicinity, and, as for the great seals, they simply amused him with their clumsy attempts to catch him. On land he could hop about on his short legs, but he preferred the water for safety, and seldom took to the rocks.

During this period of his life he kept well with the crowd of companions about him. Even the albatrosses, the huge destroyers, kept their distance, for, as they would swoop down in great circles near the young birds, they would meet an almost solid phalanx of screaming and snapping beaks, and would sweep about in giant curves until, seeing no chance to rush in, they would stand out to sea again and disappear.

Gradually, as the months passed, the older penguins began to scatter. Some went farther and farther off shore, until, at length, when the cold July sun swept but a small arc of a circle above the horizon, they left the rocks and faced the wild ocean that sweeps past the Horn. Our young one now felt a desire to roam with the rest, and, one day, when the snore of the gale droned over the barren lumps, bringing thick squalls of sleet and snow, he put out into the open sea and headed away for the Strait of Magellan.

Away through the dark water he went, his feeling of loneliness increasing as the land disappeared. The very majesty of that great waste of rolling sea impressed him, and an instinctive longing to realize what it meant came over him. He raised his head into the air and gave forth a long, deep, sonorous cry; but the dark ocean made no answer, the only sound being the distant noise of some combing crest that broke and rolled away to the southward. There was not a living thing in sight.

Through the gloom he made his way with the feeling of adventure growing. He kept a lookout for small fish, and repeatedly dived to a great depth, but, even down there, where the light failed entirely, there was nothing. Only once during the day did he see anything alive, and this was after hours of swimming. A dark object showed upon the slope of a swell. It looked like a triangular knife-blade, and cut the water easily, while the dark shadow beneath the surface appeared almost as inert as a log or a piece of wreckage. The penguin drew nearer to it to investigate, for one of his strongest feelings was a desire to find out about things. Then the object drew toward him and appeared to be drifting to meet him. Suddenly there was a rush through the water. The protruding fin ripped the surface of the rolling swell, and, as it came on the forward slope, the penguin saw a pair of enormous jaws opening in front of him, while a row of teeth showed white in the dark water. He made a sudden swerve aside and missed the opening by a hair’s breadth. Before the shark could turn to pursue him, he dived and set off at a great rate of speed below the surface, and was soon out of the way. He had learned to look for danger wherever he might meet another such peculiar-shaped object, and the lesson would be of use, for there is no sea where sharks are not found.

Between Terra del Fuego and Staten Land lies the narrow water of Lemaire Strait. Through this channel the current rushes with incredible speed, swirling around the reefs and foaming over the sunken ledges that line the shore. The tussock-covered hills of barren shingle form a background so bleak and uninhabited that many of the large sea fowl find it safe to trust themselves upon the cliffs where nothing may approach from shoreward to take them unawares. The rocks are covered with weed, and plenty of whale-food drifts upon them, so that there is always a supply for winter. There the penguin landed after days of cruising, and waddled on shore for the first time since leaving the place of his birth.

To the westward, across the strait, the fires from the hills where the savages dwelt shone in the gloom of the twilight. They were attractive, and often he would sit and watch them in the growing gloom of the long winter evenings after he had come ashore from a day’s fishing, wondering at the creatures who made them. The light was part of his mental enjoyment, and sometimes, after looking for an hour or more, he would raise his head, which had a long, sharp beak, and, with lungs full of air, let forth a wild, lonely cry. For days and days he would come and go, seeing no companions save the raucous whale-birds who would come in on the rock and who had no sympathy with his fishing. They were mere parasites, and depended upon the great animals to show them their food.

As the months passed and the sun began to stay longer above the horizon, he became more and more lonesome. A longing for companionship came upon him, and he would sit and gaze at the fires across the strait until he gave vent to his feelings with his voice.

One day, when the sun shone brightly, he came upon the ledge and rested. He was not very tired, but the sun was warm and the bright rays were trying to his eyes after the long gloom of the winter. The ragged mountains stood up clearly from across the strait, but the fires would not shine in the sunlight. He stood looking for a time, and then broke forth into a long-drawn call. To his astonishment an answering note came sounding over the water. He repeated his cry and listened. From far away in the sunshine a weird cry was wafted across the sea. It thrilled him. He was not afraid, for the cry was one of yearning, and he wanted companionship. He sat and waited until he saw a small object on the rise of a swell. It came nearer, and then he saw it was one of his own race, and dived into the sea and went to meet the stranger.

How smooth was the newcomer’s coat and how white the breast! He looked the female over critically, and a strange feeling of companionship pervaded his being. Then he went toward her and greeted her, sidling up and rubbing his head against her soft neck and swimming around her in circles. The sun shone brightly and the air was warm. The very joy of life was in him, and he stretched forth his head and called and called to the ledges and reefs, sea and sky, to bear witness that he would no longer live alone, but would thenceforth take the beautiful stranger with him and protect her. He climbed upon the ledge, she following, and, proud as a peacock, strutted back and forth in his enjoyment of her good will and comradeship.

They strayed about the rocks and swam in the sheltered places among the reefs for a few days, but a desire to go into the great world to the southward and make a snug home for the coming summer began to make him restless. The warm sunshine made life a joy in spite of the thick coating of fat and feathers, and the high cliffs of Tierra del Fuego seemed to offer a tempting abode for the warmer months. His pretty companion shared his joy, and also his desire to go out into the great sea to the southward and find a suitable place on some rock or ledge where they could make a home.

They started off shore one morning and swam side by side for many leagues, skirting the sheer and dangerous Horn and meeting many more couples who, like themselves, were looking for a suitable place for a summer sojourn while the bright sun should last. They met a vast crowd of their kind making an inner ledge of the Ramirez their stopping-place, and there they halted. It was pleasant to be sociable when united to a proud companion, and they went among the throng until they found a place on the rocks where they could climb ashore easily. Our friend led the way up the slope and found a level spot among the stones where his mate could sit and be near the tide. She would lay her eggs there, and he would take care that she fared well.

Weeks passed and two white shells shone in marked contrast to the surrounding stones and gravel. His mate had laid two beautiful eggs, and her care for them kept him busy fishing for two. Yet he was very happy. He would make short trips to the outlying reef and seize a fish. Then he would hurry home with it, and together they would eat it while his mate sat calmly upon the eggs, keeping them warm and waiting for the first “peep” to show the entrance into this world of her firstborn. All about, the other couples had their nests, consisting only of the bare stones, for there was no drift or weed out there to use, and they sat in great numbers close enough to call to each other in case a marauding albatross or mollemoke should come in from the sea and try to steal eggs.

Day after day he fished and brought his mate the spoils, often sitting on the eggs himself while she took a plunge into the cold water for exercise and change. He was satisfied and the world was bright with the joy of life.

One day his mate waddled quickly from the nest. Where before there had been two shining white eggs, two little yellow puff-balls lay on the stones, and they made a noise that showed him his offspring were strong and healthy young ones. He strutted up and down the ledge, proud and straight, while his mate gave forth cries of satisfaction and nestled down again to give the delicate little ones shelter. He almost forgot to go fishing, and only a call from his patient mate recalled him to the fact that she must be fed. He stepped down the rocks, and, as he dived into the sea, cried aloud for joy.

Out near the Ramirez the fish were playing in the sunshine. He made his way thither, his breast high with the happiness of his existence. Other fowl were there fishing. He joined them, but gave no heed to a long object that came slowly over the water from the land of fire. It headed toward the cliffs where the sea fowl dwelt, and two half-naked savages propelled it with paddles. They were hunting for eggs, and the rocks offered a tempting place to land, for the great crowd of birds told plainly of the summer breeding-place. They ran the canoe into a sheltered spot among the rocks where the heave of the sea was slight, and then sprang ashore. Up they climbed and stood upon the level where the penguin females sat and called wildly for their mates.

A savage stooped and began gathering eggs, pushing away the birds or knocking them on the head with a stick, when, with their sharp beaks, they protested against the robbery. He was a horribly filthy fellow, and his ugly body was partly covered with skins of birds and sealskin. He noticed a female sitting close, calling to our penguin for help, and the bird seemed to be very fine and large, with a good skin. He made a pass with his club and smote her on the head. She struggled desperately to get away, but could not. The blow partly stunned her. The little ones scurried off as she rose, and the savage saw there were no eggs to be had from her. But he would have her skin anyway, so, with a furious stroke of his weapon, he knocked her lifeless at his feet. Then he picked her up and went on.

Later in the afternoon the male came back from fishing. He climbed the cliffs and looked about him. His mate and young were missing, and he sent forth his deep, sonorous cry. But it was not answered. Other birds took it up, but there was no answering call from the mate, and the little dark speck that rose and fell upon the heave of the swell away in toward the shore of Tierra del Fuego gave no token of her fate.

All night he wandered over the rocks, his wild note of calling sounding far out to sea. In the morning he stood once more upon the spot where, a few days before, the mate of his bosom sat proudly upon the white eggs. The empty shells were all that were left. He stood gazing out to sea, and then his instinct told him he would see his family no more. He gave one long-drawn cry, plunged into the sea, and was gone. The great west wind came roaring over the sea before the sun set, and before it he held his way. He would go far away from the scene of his summer’s life. The vast ocean would be his home, and the memories of the ledge be a thing of the past.

For many days the penguin roamed over the huge rolling hills of water. The vastness of the ocean and its grandeur soothed him, though he still called out at intervals when the sadness of his life was strong upon him. Then came a day when sea and sky seemed to blend in one wild whirl, and a hurricane from the high, ragged hills of Patagonia swept the Antarctic Drift. Away he went before it, and the wildness of it was joy, the deepening roar of the wind and crash of Cape combers making music for his spirit. He headed for the middle of the current between the land where the Pacific flows through and meets the western ocean, the stretch of sea that reaches away past the South Shetlands to the south pole.

How wild and lonely was the storm-swept sea! Great hills of rolling water, fifty feet in height, with stately and majestic rush, passed to the eastward, their tops crowned with huge white combing crests and their sides streaked and flecked with long stripes of white foam. Above, the dull banks of hurtling vapor flew wildly away to somewhere in the distance, far beyond the reach of vision. It was more comfortable beneath the surface than above it, and our penguin drove headlong before the sea two fathoms below the foam, only coming up once in a while to breathe. On and on he drove for hours, until hunger warned him to keep a lookout for fish, as he occasionally came up for air, and to see if there were signs of the oily surface denizens showing in the sweep of that great, lonely sea. Suddenly an object attracted his attention. It was a mere speck on the storm-torn horizon, but he knew it must be of considerable size. It was different from anything he had ever before seen, for above it three long, tapering sticks stood upward, and upon the middle one a strip of white, like the wing of an albatross, caught the weight of the wild west wind. He was interested, and drove along toward it until the object loomed high above him, and the deep snore of the gale sounded like a heavy roaring comber tearing through the many lines of the rigging and under the strip of white canvas. The great thing would rise upon the crest of a giant wave and fling its long, pointed end high into the gale, the rushing sea striking it and smashing over in a white smother like the surge on the rocks. Then down it would swing slowly until it would reach the hollow between the moving hills, and the penguin could see upon its body, its tall sticks rolling to windward and the roar of the gale deepening into a thunderous, rushing sound, until the advancing sea would lift it again and roll it toward the lee. The sight of the huge monster wallowing about, hardly making the slightest way through the water, interested the penguin. It seemed like a floating rock without life, and he felt a curiosity to know if it were alive. He rose partly from the sea and uttered a long-drawn, hoarse call that floated down the gale and swept over the great hulk. Nothing happened, and he repeated the call,—a far-reaching, wild, deep, resonant cry.

But the great ship swung along slowly, as before, and he dived under her to see what was below.

In the forecastle the dim light of the summer day made a dismal and cheerless scene. The watch below had turned in, all standing, their wet clothes wrapped about them in their “pews,” or bunks, making a vapor in the cold air through which the light of the swinging lamp shone dimly. The gray light from outside filtered in at the side ports and spoke of the cold, hard day on deck. Once in a while some shivering wretch would turn in his poultice of soaking flannel and get a fresh piece of icy-cold cloth against his skin that would call forth maledictions on the Horn, the weather, and the hove-to ship. In a corner of the forecastle a pile of soaking clothes moved, and a moan sounded above the noise without.

“Stow it, Sammy; you’ll be all right soon, my boy,” said a voice in a bunk above him.

“Oh, but it’s so cold, Tom,” whispered the pile of clothes. “I can’t last much longer, and they might let me die warm, at least.”

“What’s the little man sayin’?” asked a deep voice opposite. “Wants to die warm, does he? Say, Sammy, me son, you’ll be warm mighty soon after you’re dead; why in thunder don’t you put up with a bit o’ cold till then, boy?”

“You’re a blamed brute, bos’n,” said the first speaker, “an’ if I wa’n’t mighty well used up I’d soak you a good whanging for that. Yer know the poor boy’s sick wid scurvy, an’ aint likely to pull through.”

“I’ll ware ye out when th’ watch is called, yer preacher,” said the bos’n confidently. “Talk away, for you’ll only get it all the worse when I shucks my dunnage.” Then, as if the matter were settled, he snugged up in his soaking bunk and hove down to warm a piece of his steaming covering until it should cease to send a chill through his big frame and he could wander into dreamland.

The shivering form of the boy in the corner moved again, and he groaned in agony. It was useless for him to try to sleep with his limbs swollen and his flesh almost bursting with the loathsome disease. The pile of wet clothes upon him could not keep him warm, and each shiver sent agony through him. He would die unless he could get relief soon, and there the ship was off the Horn in June, the beginning of winter, without one chance in fifty of making port in less than two months.

In his half-delirious state he lived many of his early schooldays again, and then followed thoughts of those who were nearest to him. He must die. His grave must be in that great, dark void beneath. Oh, the loneliness of that great ocean! What would it be like far below in the blackness of the vast deep, beyond the heave of the great sea, in the very bosom of the great world of silence? The horror of it caused him to groan. Would anyone punish the cruel ship-owners and captain who had so foully murdered him with the cheap and filthy food? What would anyone care after he had gone? What would he care, away down in that everlasting blackness, where no one would ever see him again? He lay upon his back and stared with red and swollen eyes at the bunk above him where Tom, the quartermaster, snored loud enough to be heard above the dull, thunderous roar overhead. In another hour the watch must turn out, but they would let him lie by; him, a dying ship’s-boy. But would he die outright? Would his soul live down there in that awful blackness, where they must soon heave his body? He had heard of sailors’ spirits haunting ships. Could his do so? Was there a hideous devil below waiting for him? He had heard there was. Far down in the bottomless abyss some monster might await him. He gazed with staring eyes at the dim lamp, and longed for a little light and sunshine to relieve the terrible gloom of the Antarctic winter day.

Then there broke upon his ears a wild, sonorous, deep-drawn cry sounding over the storm-swept sea. It was not human. What was it? Was it for him? The thought made him sick with terror. He groaned aloud, and Tom turned over in his wet clothes until the sudden chill of moving from the one steaming place made him grumble audibly.

“What was it, Tom?” he whispered.

“What?” growled the sailor surlily.

“There——” and the cry was repeated.

Tom growled a little and then rolled snug again. Suddenly he started up. “A man might as well freeze to death on deck as in this unholy frozen hole,” he said. Then he climbed stiffly down from his bunk, clapped his sou’wester on his head, and, tying the flaps snug under his chin, he slid back the forecastle door with a bang, and landed on the main deck.

There he stood a minute watching the great fabric straining under her lower maintopsail, hove to in that sea that the Cape Horner knows so well and dreads so much. In the waist, the foam on deck told of a flood of icy water that poured again and again over the topgallant rail and crashed like a Niagara upon the deck planks, rushing to leeward through the ports in the bulwarks and carrying everything movable along with it.

He watched his chance, and dodged around the corner of the deck house, where the port watch huddled to keep clear of the wind and the sea.

“Merry Fourth o’ July to ye,” bawled a man of the watch, as he came among them.

“What’s the matter? Can’t ye find enough work to do whin yer turn comes?” asked another.

“Where’s the whale-iron?” asked Tom, of Chips, who had come out of his room to get a look around.

The carpenter looked at him queerly. “What d’ye want wid it?” he asked.

“Listen!” said Tom.

Then the cry of the sea fowl sounded again.

“Penguin?” said Chips.

“Turkey,” said Tom, with a smile. “If we can get the steward to give us a bit o’ salt pork fat we can git him, or I’m a soger.”

He was an old whaleman, and the carpenter hesitated no longer. He led the way into his room in the forward house where he kept his tools, and the iron was brought forth. A word to the mate on watch, and the sailor was fast in the lee forerigging, standing upon the shear-pole, with the iron ready to heave. The fat was tossed over the side, and he waited.

In the dark, cold hole of the forecastle the drawn lips of the sick boy were parted, showing his blue and swollen gums. He was grinning horribly. “Take him away. Oh, take him away!” he was moaning. “Hear him a-callin’ me? Don’t let him get me, Tom; take him away, take him away! It’s the devil callin’ me!”

All the fear and anguish that can burn through a disordered brain was upon the little fellow, and the dismal cry lent a reality to his delirious thoughts. Suddenly he half rose in his bunk, and then the latent spark of manhood, which was developing even in spite of his sufferings, came to his aid. He thought of the Great Power which ruled his fate, and shook himself into full consciousness, glancing up at the aperture through which the dim light filtered as if he half expected to see a vision that would give him strength. Then he felt that he would face the end calmly, and meet whatever was in store as a man should. Perhaps the captain and owners could not help matters, after all. He could hear the song of the gale more distinctly, and once the tramp of the men as they tailed onto the maintopsail brace. They were jamming the yard hard on the backstay, and there was no show of a slant yet. He must lie quiet and wait, listening to the weird cry that caused him to shiver and see fantastic figures upon the carlines above his head.

Out on the great, high-rolling sea, the penguin had scented a peculiar substance. He drew nearer the great fabric that rolled and swung so loggily on the sea. He sent forth a wild cry, and drove headlong after a piece of white matter that floated in the foam of the side wash. He seized it and swallowed it. Then he came closer.

A form stood in the rigging above him, motionless, as if made of wood, and a long, pointed thing was balanced in the air. A piece of fat showed right beneath, and he went for it, in spite of the feeling of dread that came upon him. He was hungry, and would snatch it and then get away. He reached it, and at that instant something struck him in the back, carrying him beneath the surface. Then his life went out.

“A fine turkey, an’ that’s a fact,” said Chips, a moment later. “Get something to put him in, quick; the lad will have a stew, fer sure. ’Twill well-nigh cure him, and, anyways, it’ll keep him a-goin’ until we speak a wessel fer fresh grub.”

The second mate came forward.

“Eight bells, ye starbowlines,” he bawled into the forecastle; “turn out, or I’ll be right in there wid ye! One o’ ye bring Sammy’s mess things. He’s got turkey fer dinner. Come, wake up, sonny! There aint no devil or nothin’ a-chasin’ ye. Ye’ll be all right in a week o’ Sundays. Bring that beef juice right in here, Chips. Hold his head, Tom,—there,—make him drink it while it’s hot.”

In a little while the hot broth made from the bird’s flesh warmed the boy’s body, and his mind was clear again. The forecastle was empty, and the wild cry he had heard no longer sounded above the gale. He felt stronger, and his terror had vanished. A feeling of ease grew within his poisoned body. A gleam of faint sunlight came through the open door, and as he looked he knew that the God he felt had given him strength had been kind. He knew no prayer, or word of thanks, but his spirit was warm with gratitude. He smiled his thanks at his shipmates, and closed his eyes. Then he slept.

A crowd of swearing and jostling men awakened him as they came tumbling below some hours afterwards.

“Grub ahoy!” bawled one. Then the mess-kid came in steaming from the galley, and upon it was a large fowl.

“Hi, yi, turkey, ahoy! Turkey, ’e was a good old man!” cried a Swede.

“An’ divil a bit will anyone but th’ bye git,” said the big bos’n. “It’s sorry I am, Thomas, me dear, that I have tew whang ye afther yer noble raid on ther poulthry.”

THE LOGGERHEAD

THE LOGGERHEAD

He was probably named by sailors because of his fancied resemblance to a certain piece of ship’s gear, but the Conchs of the Bahama Bank believed he deserved his name in its true meaning, for he was certainly the most stupid fellow on the reef. Those who knew him and watched him crawl up the glistening white coral sand that glared in the heat of the torrid sunshine never took the trouble to harm him, although the law of the reef is very much like it is elsewhere. The strongest or quickest-witted only might endure.

But the conch who first turned him, or rather attempted to turn him, found that his dead weight of six hundred pounds of shell and leather-like beef was not worth the trouble. Turtles of more manageable size were plentiful, and there was no use of straining one’s self trying to upset such a monster. He drew his knife to kill, but the stupid one had sense enough to withdraw his head within the wall of bony shell, and the black man called maledictions upon him for turning the edge of his weapon. Then he smote him over the back with his turning stave and called him a worthless one because he refused to contribute himself to the Conch’s larder, and passed on.

The loggerhead paid small heed to the man’s behavior. The bright sunshine was warming the white sands, and the blue water of the Gulf Stream was rippling past the cay, while above him the beautiful little lumpy clouds, bunches of pure white vapor, were floating away to the southward. It was enough to live without bothering with those who fished upon the waters of the reef or the great swarm of creatures who inhabited the clear depths. Everywhere the sea denizens seemed to be in continual tumult, some trying to build homes among the sponges and growths of the coral banks, and others hurrying to and fro through the clear blue liquid with no especial purpose he could fathom. Then there were the destroyers who came and went with a rush, chasing the smaller to shelter and splashing a great deal of water in their efforts to capture those weaker than themselves.

The loggerhead poked forth his nose and gazed about him, wondering at the beauty of the world, and gave the struggling swarms but a passing glance. Then he laboriously hauled himself up the warming sands until he reached high-water mark.

The Conch had walked far away down the cay where his boat was hauled up. His companion sat in the stern-sheets and lazily bailed the water from her. When he had finished, the two men shoved her off and hoisted a small sail. Then swinging her bow around before the breeze, they headed away toward the distant line of white which showed to the eastward where a larger cay of the Bank rose from the sea. After they had gone the loggerhead watched the rippling water along the shore. Soon the head of a huge turtle appeared, and in a few minutes the great form of another like himself hauled slowly and lazily up the beach.

Before dark several followers had hauled up to high-water mark. On the cay was soft fine sand of a nature not unlike that of more northern beaches, and this had banked above the coral to a depth of three or more feet.

With flippers of horny hardness and gigantic power the females began to cut their way down. They scooped and scooped until they had holes at least two feet deep nicely rounded and firmly packed on the sides as though they were cemented. Then they dropped slowly egg after egg into the little pits until a hundred or more had packed themselves into the receptacles. The shells of the eggs were soft like leather, and each egg had a small dent which showed it was fresh. Then as the night wore on they softly covered the pits with sand and carefully smoothed them over until not the slightest trace of any disturbance of the surface showed. It was nice work, for the sand was soft, and the signs of digging were easily made, but hard to conceal, and it was nearly dawn before the females were satisfied with their efforts. Then they slipped slowly down the sand into the sea and disappeared to return no more. Their task was done.

The huge loggerhead who had led the way up the beach watched the departing turtles as they went to sea. The sound of the murmuring ocean was in the morning air, the song of the south sea awakening the day as the soft wind sighed over heaving swell and rippled the beautiful wavelets until they rolled into little combers and flashed white in the sunshine. All about him was the light of the tropic dawn. The sweet breath of the trade wind fanned his iron-hard head and he opened his eyes lazily to watch the sunrise. It was well. The beauty of the world attracted him.

Far away on the horizon the spurts of foam showed the beginning of the strenuous life of the destroyers. He watched them lazily and wondered at their fierceness, their uselessness of purpose. Then he saw a form coming down the beach and looked eastward where the boat of the Conchs had made the shore again.

The black man went slowly along the beach prodding the sand at high-water mark wherever he saw the tracks of turtles. He had a long, thin piece of iron with a sharp end which he drove into the sand and withdrew again, looking at the end to see if there was any sign of egg-yolk adhering to it. Once he struck a place where a turtle had scooped out a nest, and the dripping iron caused him to give a cry to his companion in the boat. Then he threw down a sack and dug until he had unearthed the eggs, which he transferred quickly to the bag, and picking up his iron staff he went along, bending down to watch the tracks more closely.

The loggerhead watched him out of the corner of his eye and thought of the turtle who had lost her eggs, but the whole thing interested him but little and he made his way slowly down the sand to avoid being hit over the head with the iron rod because the Conch did not like him.

The Conch saw him as he gained the surf, but he knew him, and shaking his staff at him he went along searching for more prizes.

The great loggerhead swam easily just below the surface where the sunlight filtered down and made the liquid a bright blue. He had no object, and held his course across the Gulf Stream, letting himself drift with the current. It was well to live and the uselessness of effort was more apparent to him since he had seen the Conch’s work on the cay of the Bahama Bank.

The warm stream was rushing silently northward and the gentle wind caused but little roll to the sea. The loggerhead could lie upon the surface and poke his head out, getting a glimpse of the eternal rim of the circle which had no break. But he cared nothing for land, and the sea was sparkling and blue. The sun overhead sent down hot rays which he felt through his thick armor of shell, but when it grew too warm he cooled himself by sinking a few feet below the surface for several minutes.